


Yol Toor

by Miss_Mc_Skillet



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Implied Death, Oneshot, feral dragonborn, maybe DB/Vilkas if you squint, sided with stormcloaks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Mc_Skillet/pseuds/Miss_Mc_Skillet
Summary: "...and when her slitted eyes seem to pick him out from the crowd, he is filled with a bone-deep terror, something so old and instinctual, he knows very suddenly what his own prey feels like when he corners them in the night."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some backstory: I've always been interested in the idea of a feral Dovahkiin, and got to wondering if I could combine that idea with the idea of the DB being indoctrinated- and kidnapped- from various political factions, and thus ending up more than a little crazy by the time the Civil War really kicks into motion.

 

      He doesn't recognize her when he first sees her. Her hair is longer now, falling in a curtain of tight black curls around her face and shoulders, which are thinner, bonier than he remembers them being. When she lifts her head and screams her hell-cat scream, he wants to run, as fast as he can. And when her slitted eyes seem to pick him out from the crowd, he is filled with a bone-deep terror, something so old and instinctual, he knows very suddenly what his own prey feels like when he corners them in the night.

      "Gods above..." his voice is just above a whisper, drowned out by the noise of a thousand other similar whispers. By his side, Farkas shifts uneasily, tightens his grip on his sword.

      The army standing across the plain is large, larger than Vilkas had ever imagined it could be. A thousand, maybe two thousand, stand assembled, a sea of brown and blue and gleaming steel. He is struck with the thought that, perhaps, they are too large to defend against. That this may be a battle done in vain.

      The Dragonborn screams again and the sound of it rolls powerfully across the grassland between them. He can feel the vibrations of it in his chest, even from here. She is thrashing, he can see, against her binding of heavy chains, lunging into the links in an effort to be free, to bolt across the land and finally wreak her own havoc upon the ranks of the enemy. Her handlers- his gut clenches at the word and its implications- keep her back, pulling the chains taught against her struggles.

      The men and women around him shift nervously. Vilkas can smell their fear, acrid and sharp on their breaths. He can smell his own fear, and that of his brother. 

      With a long pole pressed to her neck, the Dragonborn is forced to the ground by her handlers. He can't make out the details, but he can guess at what will come next. He rolls his shoulders, tightens his grip on his sword. Left of him, Skjor mutters a quiet curse and holds his shield higher.

      Then the Dragonborn is streaking across the plains. With every step she takes, he can see her body changing, scales forming across her lengthening arms and neck, short horns erupting from her skull. It is as though her dovah has climbed out from under her skin, like a butterfly does from its cocoon. She is terrible and beautiful.

      When she smashes into the shield-wall moments later, a panic sets over the defenders. A wail of despair rises from them all and he can feel the line begin to buckle.

      Then the Stormcloaks are upon them, all blue and brown and iron-gray against the Imperial reds and browns and silver steels.

      And so he fights. Raises his sword, bellows his own war cry.

      From there, it is all a haze. Bodies move around him- die around him. Steel and iron flash and scream and spark and cleave. Arrows whistle menecingly as they speed through the ranks and seek their victims. A blade clangs off the top of Vilkas's helmet, and he finds himself greatful that Farkas had forced the ridiculous thing on him that morning.

      Something crashes into him with the force of a hundred men. Vilkas lays, dazed, in the dirt, sword knocked from his grasp and air knocked from his lungs. Above him, silhouetted in the bright noon sun, he can see the snarling face of the woman of the dragon blood. She's more human now, fights with her ax instead of talons, but pale scales still armor her dark skin and her eyes still glow like twin suns. Smoke drifts from her mouth, between her bared teeth. Very suddenly, Vilkas is afraid, more afraid than he's ever been in his entire life. He is going to die.

      She leans close and underneath the stink of hellfire and brimstone, he can just barely detect the scent of lavender and mountain flowers. Flames lick around her tongue when she speaks the Words.

_Yol Toor...!_


End file.
